Cruel Melee
by El Nino1
Summary: For new arrivals into the city, the fight stadium stands out like a homing beacon, calling to the desperate and the daring. The promise is wealth and prestige, the price...
1. the quiet city: flight of the falcon

Author's Note: Revised version of previous posting--altered plot. Story is Alternative Universe. [rough draft]  
  
Disclaimer: The following contains characters and concepts that are NOT the property of the author. They are the intellectual property of Nintendo and HAL Laboratories and their associates. The author has received no monetary benefit from this work.  
  
Warning: Contains violence and unorthodox relationships.  
  
The Quiet City: Flight of the Falcon  
  
He was at the top of his game, taking turns at neck-breaking speeds while the world passed around him as a stream of steely colors. In the distance, the city skyline still held, an almost stationary fixation to the eye. Immediately surrounding him though, all forms broke down, accelerated into oblivion.   
  
He gunned into turbo, and the mechanical bird of prey responded instantly, a deep purr rumbling out from its belly. Head-on, a pale pink-blue rectangle approached. He steered carefully, aiming to hit it dead center. The ramp threw him into the sky as he slid over it, pulling up hard on the controls. At max. height, his metallic falcon soared, gaining a view of the grey track ahead of him, the quiet city looming all around and below.  
  
Landing it was easy--a minor jolt, but it smoothed out.  
  
Ahead, the straight-away became a widening curve, and he shifted weight, lifting the accelerator, but only a little. Physics slammed him hard to the side, tugging forcefully at his senses. But he rode it out, until the curve had straightened again. In front of him: the finish. He hit full throttle, the rush in his blood, and a fire in his heart.  
  
It was ending too soon, but he had never known any other way to fly.  
  
Inside his head, the city hummed.   
  
* * *  
  
Hundreds of kilometers into the sky, the view from all sides looked out over the surrounding districts. As a club frequented by racers and other celebrities, the late-night bar was a little too up-scale for him. But where else could a person go for a drink this late into the evening? And at night, it showed a magnificent skyline. So that was a good enough reason for him to be here, sitting by himself at a table in the darkest corner, waiting for a friend. He had started out with the hard liqueur and now wondered when would be a good time to stop. The glass on his table sat nearly empty. As he considered refilling it, his eyes strayed to the nearby window, out over the city lights and higher into the night sky. From this altitude, he could see the stars, battling with the city for attention. At ground level, the city always won. But in the endlessness of space, that was another story.  
  
'Feeling melodramatic?' he thought to himself. What the hell, must be the drink. Or maybe he was turning into a goddamn sap in his old age.  
  
That was the problem right there.   
  
'I feel old.'  
  
He decided to drink to that, finishing what was left in his glass.  
  
It didn't burn so much on the way down, since the ice had melted into it. He tested himself. He still knew what day of the week it was, and he could still feel both of his feet. So it was decided to order another.   
  
He had lifted his head, about to signal a server, when a bottle of scotch came down in front of him, thudding softly against the table. Eyes trailing up the hand that came with it, he found a familiar face--and a bitter smile.  
  
"Hey there, Sam'," he greeted, lips curving upward. It came out low, with a rumble to his tone.  
  
"'Evening, Captain. Mind some company?" He shook his head, and she seated herself across from him. His hands went to the bottle between them, turning it around by its neck. He raised his eyebrow at her. Her response come by a tilt of her head toward the bar, where DK himself stood wiping the counter with a rag. The large bar owner met his eyes and only gave a firm nod of the head. Captain nodded in reply, raising a hand in thanks.  
  
"Can I offer you a drink?" he asked, turning back to Sam.  
  
"Might as well," she said, sliding her glass of ice across the table.  
  
After he had poured drinks for both of them, after they had taken a few sips in silence, swirling their glasses so that the ice melted and mixed faster, he finally looked at her and found that she was watching him, something in between patience and caution in her expression.  
  
Sam had always been good at reading people, observing the surroundings. It was a useful tool in her profession. Unlike him, she was in her prime--old enough to be a veteran, but young enough to still be in the game. In some ways, she reminded him of himself. Hardened at heart, cool under fire, but unlike him, never resigned to regret. Her flaws didn't completely incapacitate her. Or maybe her own mask was sturdier than his.  
  
"How's the business, Captain?" she asked, finally.  
  
"The usual," he answered, amazed that it came out without pause. "And you?"  
  
"Pretty good," she said.   
  
He nodded, taking another sip. She considered him for a moment before speaking again.  
  
"Seems like you're back in all the talk lately," she said casually, her tone almost teasing. "The news bulletins are starting to love you again." He said nothing. "And the rumors keep going," she added. "You wouldn't believe the things I've heard."  
  
"I guess everyone loves a star, right?" he said, smiling morosely. 'I'm their fucking clown.'  
  
"You're a regular celebrity," she agreed. "Making a real name for yourself."  
  
"Thank you," he said, laughing. She laughed too, raising her drink to her lips again. She had never been one to let a man reach the bottom of his glass before she did.  
  
More silence passed between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Both their glasses were empty, so he refilled them.  
  
"Well," she began, waiting for the ice to melt, "is any of it true?"  
  
"Which part?" he asked. "What you've been hearing on the news, or what's been going around the inner circle?"  
  
"Any part."  
  
Instead of answering, he turned toward the window. She followed his gaze, noting his reflection in the pane of glass. She said nothing further, only took another drink from her cup.  
  
He didn't have to answer. The expression on his face--which she had learned to read--said it for him.  
  
But he would play it off. She knew he would.  
  
"The tabs are written by morons," he said, his tone joking. "I could come up with better stuff if I whacked a keyboard with my dick."  
  
Sam laughed, deciding to award him for effort, at least.  
  
The tabloids had called him many things. They spun him out as a limp-wristed, unintelligent, socially awkward wash-out. It had been years since he last won a Grand Prix, and no one knew his name anymore. But the tabloids had been looking for some dirt on racers, and Captain had done well this year, just well enough to place at the bottom of the top twenty. So one news source had reported on his background, painting a sad picture of a man getting too old for the game, trying to re-enter the pros from retirement, after a year spent dominating the amateur tracks. Others picked up on it, and his story became even more colorful. He was the product of a traumatic childhood, now an alcoholic on an eight year drinking binge who raced well only when drunk; he was the father to many children borne by different women, but he was also a repressed homosexual whose sexual depravity could turn him into a wild berserker or a flaming rapist. Not just a has-been, he was also an embarrassment to his colleagues, but too stupid to realize it.   
  
And even though Sam knew better than to believe all of this, she knew that not all it was lies.  
  
"There's nothing you can do about it, is there?" she said.  
  
"Not a damn thing."  
  
They were both silent for a moment.  
  
After a pause, he changed subjects. "So what brings you here, Sam? I know you didn't travel across the solar system just to straighten out gossip with me."  
  
"No," she admitted. "I'm here because of a job."  
  
"Anything I can help you with?"  
  
Across the table, Sam leaned forward, her voice falling low. "You've seen the listings." It was a statement, not a question. "Digital Clay Technologies is offering the value of a small planet in gold for the retrieval of what they're calling 'stolen company property'."  
  
He nodded once. "I've heard."  
  
Sam smirked at this. "The item we're talking about," she continued, "is a standard data chip. Nothing special except for the information on it--no details disclosed. The problem is that it's linked to a mobile projection unit."  
  
"Which means it could be wandering around on its own," he concluded.  
  
Sam gave a firm nod of the head. "A wire frame disguised in any kind of skin imaginable."  
  
"They never said it was a runaway AI."  
  
"They don't say a lot of things."  
  
The Captain shrugged in response. "Doesn't matter, Sam. I've done that kind of work before. Money wasn't that good."  
  
"Did you see the numbers they posted?" she countered, one eyebrow raised. "Do the math."  
  
He shook his head, unconvinced. "Assuming the target hasn't gone offworld, you're still looking at a city of over a billion. The odds aren't worth it."  
  
Sam regarded him in silence before speaking again. "Then let me tell you one more thing," she offered. "I started working on this several months ago. In the beginning, it was like you said. I got nowhere. Then, on luck, I ran into a mutual friend of ours. Apparently, the old fox and his crew had an encounter with the Prion-212."  
  
"The ghost station?"  
  
Sam grinned, nodding. "You're not so far out of the loop, Captain."  
  
"Hmph." He risked a smile. "Those assholes are known for dicking around with shit like that. How does it tie in with DC Tech?"  
  
"I'll let them explain it to you when they get here," she replied. At his apparent surprise, she laughed. "Our old fox is taking a much needed vacation from terrorizing all of space. And he's headed here because rumor has it you're in the next Grand Prix."  
  
She studied his face, finding the trace of a smile below the mask. "Is it true?"  
  
"Maybe," he answered. His voice came out dispassionate, but a slight edge of excitability was there, hardly detectable. He didn't want to make a fool of himself, which was bound to happen if he got his hopes up, if he let himself believe that this could be the long awaited second chance he had dreamt of for the past year.  
  
Sam must have felt it too. It showed in her eyes. But something else had crept into her face. Her mouth set to a firm line, and her eyes watched his mask with a subtle, deep consideration. "You're going after the prize, aren't you?" she asked finally, her voice somber. "Alone." When he didn't respond, she continued, "You know, for a while, we thought you were dead. Out of the game."  
  
He didn't look directly at her, preferring to stare down at the tabletop. After a moment, he lifted his drink. "I'm never out," he answered, taking a sip. He set down the glass with a heavy thud. "I'm not senile yet, either. I know about the Prion."  
  
Sam smiled regretfully. "Then you know what we're dealing with here."  
  
"I know," he said, "that there's a prize. And it's mine." Abruptly, Captain made to get up from his chair. "Thanks for the drink, Sam. I owe you one."  
  
His friend stopped him from rising, one hand reaching for his arm. Her eyes nailed him where he was. "This thing," she said, "whatever it is--it's powerful. And the situation is more complicated than you probably think. Come with me to see Fox when he arrives."  
  
He studied her face. "What exactly did he bring off that station?"  
  
Sam's expression was grim. She shook her head. "We're not sure. Hopefully, we can find out. In the meantime . . ." She raised her drink. After a pause, Captain did the same.  
  
"What are we toasting to, Sam?"  
  
"Victory."  
  
* * *  
  
The package waited for him. It alone, in his single-room apartment, seemed to have expected his return. He kept it in the corner of his eye while he shrugged off his jacket. Then taking a seat on the bed, he worked off his boots, his belt and gun. Lastly, the helmet came off, finding a place on his dresser.  
  
The apartment had been designed for space efficiency, not comfort--one room among many that honeycombed a monstrosity of concrete and steel. The building was old, providing only low-level lighting in each of its residential compartments, none larger than a closet. Within these walls, tenants carried out their daily lives, packaged like eggs in a carton.   
  
He hadn't bothered with the lights when he entered. Not until he remembered the box on his desk, and the reason for its presence there, did he rise from the bed to flip on a dim desk lamp.  
  
The box had arrived the previous morning by a uniformed, company delivery man. A brief x-ray scan proved that the wrapping contained only what it was supposed to contain, and he left it on the desk. Now he took it in both hands, turning it over. The label was addressed to him, his legal name printed out in mechanical font. A corporate logo overlapping the return address quietly asserted legitimacy.  
  
His fingers pried off the wrapping, revealing a metal cube encased in plastic, larger than a jewelry box and smaller than a computer. In his hands, it weighed very little.  
  
Special order and company manufactured, the box had been designed for high-security storage.  
  
He woke up the console on his desk. Words danced in front of his eyes as he scanned through the file that opened onto the screen.  
  
'High-priority . . . company property . . . payment in credit or coinage . . .'  
  
It was a hefty reward for something so commonplace. Must be expensive data. But those details didn't really concern him. He wasn't supposed to look at the information it carried. He only had to worry about finding the damn thing--and containing it for delivery.   
  
Usually, companies paid well for recaptured wire frames. But most escaped frames were just used pocket pets, or pocket maids, pocket fighters, pocket whatever--consumer purchases being returned to their manufacturer for proper disposal. The companies paid well because it deterred piracy and helped enforce product registration, and in the end, the accounting books balanced out in their favor.  
  
He set down the box and took a seat at the bed. His head was starting to hurt. Leaning forward, he nestled his forehead in the palms of his hands. There was nothing else he could do, having finished the last of his alcohol. He was too tired to go out for more. Maybe he could just order it from here?  
  
A gentle weight settled behind him on the mattress. He started, lifting his head from his hands, as soft fingers rested on his shoulders. Turning, his eyes found the second cube, in the same place he always kept it, on the floor, next to the coffin that was his bed. In design, it looked much like the other. But this one was older, its plastic coating chipped and stained in places, worn from suitcases and closets, from countless days and nights spent on hotel floors and in cargo holds--at times, carried in his coat pocket. For a good number of years, it had been his sole traveling companion. He was surprised its power light still worked. But now it glowed back at him, unrelenting in the darkness, the lid propped back. He must have left it open for the entire day while he was gone.  
  
The hands on his shoulders coaxed him to lie down, and that familiar voice whispered crystalline promises in his ear. He didn't respond. Not that it mattered. Pocket pets didn't have feelings, did they?  
  
A 'new message' alert flashed on the screen of his desk console, but it went unnoticed. The eyes glimmering above him held his complete attention, shining with an almost human understanding--as human as the minimal intelligence of an artificial brain could manage, anyway.   
  
It smiled.   
  
He closed his eyes, arms folding around a smaller body pressed against him.  
  
In the dark, the warmth it provided almost seemed real. 


	2. the quiet city: stray

Author's Note: Revised. C. Falcon oriented.  
  
Disclaimer: The following contains characters and concepts that are NOT the property of  
the author. They are the intellectual property of Nintendo, HAL Laboratories and their  
associates. The author has received NO monetary benefit from this piece of shit.  
  
Warnings: violence.  
  
------------------------------  
The Quiet City: Stray  
------------------------------  
  
"They're not alive. I don't know why they run."  
  
* * *  
  
The cigarette left a bitter, burning taste on his tongue. He exhaled pale smoke in the dark.  
Bodies pressed against him, condensed together in the suffocating atmosphere, but he  
stood unmoving. With his back to the wall of the underground arena, he focused on the  
scene before him, over a sea of heads. The ring stood elevated and blocked off by a  
chain-link fence. Inside, two fighters squared off in a match.  
  
Tonight's flavor: survival battle.  
  
Both combatants were armed, circling each other. Blood coated the mat--like a layer of  
rust beneath the dull lights. One fighter held a rapier in one hand, and the other, smaller  
and slighter in size, wielded a double-edged blade--a fast, seemingly lightweight  
weapon--also with a single-handed grip.  
  
Falcon smoked and watched.  
  
The kid had won the previous two fights, eliminating two different opponents, one right  
after the other. He wouldn't win this one though, Falcon thought. He had been cut open in  
the last match, a long gash sliced into his left thigh. The medics closed and bandaged it for  
him in the ring, and then he had gone on with a third match. Already, the rapier had grazed  
through his clothing multiple times, drawing red lines on his skin that dripped with blood.  
Then he fucked up on a dodge and earned himself a deep cut along his right side.  
  
Falcon watched and waited patiently for his turn. He would rather fight the fresher guy  
than the kid. He was here for competition, not easy-pickings.  
  
But the crowd wanted blood. They gambled their fortunes to see these fighters bleed and  
die. Falcon though, never placed bets. When he wasn't in the ring, he only watched. And  
he kept an eye on the audience as well. Now he resisted the impulse to turn as he caught a  
face he knew in the crowd.   
  
Samurai Goroh was here, and he was keeping track of Falcon, his rival in more ways than  
one.  
  
But for the meantime, Captain ignored him, looking instead to the events inside the ring.  
He watched as the older opponent feinted and the kid fell for it, going for the parry.   
  
'It's over,' he thought grimly.  
  
With a forward lunge, the older man launched his weapon at the kid's throat. But the  
strike missed, hitting the kid's shoulder instead. The man had a second to stare blankly at  
his mistake before he seemed to realize a deep throbbing pain in his lower torso.  
  
Falcon blinked. He had only seen one strike. But there had been two: an attack and a  
counter. Moving too fast for his opponent to react, the boy had side-stepped. The moment  
the rapier had pierced his shoulder, he had thrust his weapon into the other fighter's body.  
  
Eyebrows raised, Falcon had to admit he was impressed.   
  
Both blades withdrew, and the older fighter collapsed onto his knees, shocked. The kid  
backed up, grimacing in pain as he clutched at his bleeding shoulder. Shouts from the  
crowd pushed for him to finish it. But Falcon caught the weariness in the young fighter's  
movements as he struggled to step forward, chest heaving with pained breaths. Rather  
than finishing off his opponent, he raised the sword and slammed down the hilt on the  
back of the man's neck.   
  
The beaten fighter fell face-down, his own blood spreading dark and thick on the canvas.  
  
Falcon laughed quietly to himself. 'Merciful Master.'  
  
Depending on which way they had placed their bets, the spectators either cheered or  
groaned. As the announcer declared the winner, medics carried out the loser on a  
stretcher, and they patched up the remaining fighter in the ring. He had chosen to go on  
with another match.  
  
Falcon shook his head. 'Idiot,' he thought, grinding his spent cigarette beneath his boot.  
'You should have quit while you were ahead.'  
  
The crowd quieted a little while the announcer called the next combatant to the stage. The  
name drew a loud roar from the audience, all cheers and applause.  
  
"Captain Falcon!"  
  
'Now I'm gonna have to kill you.'  
  
Part of him wanted to walk away, let the kid have his money. But still he found himself  
shouldering his way through the throngs of spectators to the stage. He mounted the steps  
and walked inside. A fresh layer of red fluid stuck to his soles.  
  
Falcon sized up the competition. Smaller than him, and probably twenty years younger, a  
kid with odd hair color and classic fighting attire stood facing him. The stance was  
misleading, with the sword held almost casually in one hand, on the same side as the  
leading leg. Falcon's eyes followed a trail of blood as it crept down the kid's arm, over a  
knuckle, and onto the decorative hilt of his sword. It did not escape the veteran fighter's  
notice that the blade's point pressed into the canvas. The kid was leaning on it, his stance  
unbalanced. He probably couldn't put much weight on his left leg, but he hid it well. As  
Falcon studied him, the kid lifted an indifferent hand to brush back wet strands of hair.  
  
The boy returned Falcon's scrutiny. He noticed that his opponent was unarmed. Puzzled,  
he shot a quizzical look at the other man. Under his breath, he murmured something  
softly that Falcon could not catch.   
  
Falcon only nodded, and the other fighter returned it. Again, the bounty hunter considered  
the option of forfeiting. He never walked away from a fight, but there was nothing to gain  
from this. No honor, no satisfaction--just easy money, which he didn't need.  
  
But then the bell sounded, and the decision was made for him. Once any game began, he  
could not plea 'no contest'--he could not turn back.   
  
Falcon charged in, all hesitation gone. He threw the first punch, an uppercut that knocked  
the kid back into the fencing.   
  
The crowd thundered with screams. Wild shouts encouraged violence with intoxicating  
fervor. And unable to deny them, Falcon sank into stance, pummeling the other fighter  
with his single fist. Lightning-fast punches hammered into his opponent's chest and  
mid-section. He finished with a left swing that spun the boy's head, and backed off.  
  
The kid fell, palms against the mat. He coughed out blood, choking on his breath, then  
struggled to rise. But Falcon was there to grab a fistful of his collar, yanking the light body  
forward. Spinning, he threw the smaller fighter across the ring. The boy landed roughly,  
skidding against the floor, sword lost.  
  
Feet pounding against the mat, Captain launched the sliding Falcon Kick. But he only  
touched air while the kid pulled off an unbelievably quick dodge, cloak flaring like a bull  
fighter's cape. Falcon collided rudely with the chain-link fence. He caught himself and  
spun around, just as the kid was picking his sword off the mat. A flash of steel swept the  
floor, biting like a snake into Falcon's leg and tripping him onto the canvas.  
  
So the kid could put up a fight. Falcon figured he had to respect that. It didn't mean he  
was gonna go easy though. When the expected follow-up didn't come, Falcon jumped  
onto his feet and aimed a kick at his opponent's head. It was blocked, but the next one,  
sweeping for the legs, was not.  
  
The whole thing lasted maybe another minute or two. The kid wasn't as fast as he had  
been, and the next time that sword swung at Falcon, the Captain dodged behind him, fist  
pulled back. As the boy turned, the Captain lunged, his fist catching the other in the  
midsection. His opponent fell.  
  
For a moment, it seemed that the kid might get up again, arms and legs fighting against the  
mat now. But eventually his body relaxed, finally still, except for the twitching behind his  
closed eyelids.  
  
'Still fighting?' Falcon thought. 'Give it up already, kid.'  
  
Screams from the crowd blistered his ears. But suddenly tired, he turned away from the  
fallen fighter and stepped out, bumping into the medics as he left the ring. The throng  
parted for him, still ecstatic enough from the night's last fight to clap him on the back or  
flash him the thumbs-up. He ignored it all, heading straight for the exit.  
  
He picked up the money at the front. Not much. Only for one win. But it didn't matter. It  
didn't change his mood as he strode out into the cool night alone. His leg stung, cold air  
nipping at the wound. But he ignored it. He could take care of it when he got home. The  
fight hadn't even left any major injuries. Nothing beyond what he was used to, anyway.  
  
'Well if there aren't even any injuries to show for it, what the fuck was it all for?'  
  
He paused only to light up another cigarette.  
  
'Feel free to disregard that voice in the back of your head--that tremor of guilt.'  
  
He remembered the kid's eyes, a sharp look shot at him through a veil of dark bangs.  
Shaking his head, he stalked on.  
  
'No. Forget it. No guilt. Not this time.'  
  
'You never walk away from a fight. Never.'  
  
* * *  
  
"You gotta name, kid?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Care to tell me?" 


	3. the quiet city: stray 2

Author's Note: Slight Alternative Universe. Features primarily C. Falcon and another.  
  
Disclaimers: The following contains characters and concepts that do NOT belong to the  
author. They are the intellectual property of Nintendo, HAL Laboratories and their  
associates. The author has received NO monetary benefit from this work.  
  
Warnings: Contains violence, offensive language.  
  
------------------------  
The Quiet City: Stray 2  
------------------------  
  
Rain hit cold on the back of his neck, trailing under his jacket as he walked, head bowed  
against the torrent. Times like these, he was glad to wear the helmet. Hell, the quiet city  
boasted a population of over a billion, its citizens originating from thousands of different  
worlds, their appearances ranging from humanoid to nonhumanoid. He could wear  
whatever the hell he wanted without catching notice.  
  
So he trudged through the filthy streets of the infamous downtown district, the collar of  
his jacket turned up, eyes hidden behind tinted glasses. Beneath him, rain-soaked  
pavement reflected the multi-colored lights above. High overhead, commercial billboards  
ran an endless stream of digital ads that flashed gold, silver and neon. In the air, he  
smelled smoke and acid rain.  
  
Angry shouts and blaring horns rose over the noise of heavy rainfall and traffic, and he  
stopped, turning to scan the busy street. Near the intersection, motorists screamed  
impatiently at each other. Something was going on. His eyes narrowed in suspicion as he  
looked over the cars in the street. Maybe an accident up ahead.  
  
Then, one driver, yelling in frustration, opened his door intending to get out. But a heavy  
force, slamming down on his windshield, stopped him. The sound of cracking glass  
drowned out his surprised cry.  
  
Falcon froze, hand reaching for his gun. The figure on top of the car broke into a wild  
sprint, pounding over the tops of other cars in its way. It appeared to be a woman, dark  
hair and brown skin sped up to a blur as she ran.  
  
Falcon glanced up the nearby buildings and caught the sight of another figure. Falling, this  
one landed on the same car the first had smashed, denting its roof and further scaring the  
wits out of its driver. Falcon took in a white jacket and long brown hair as the pursuer  
took off after the fleeing woman.  
  
They crushed roofs and broke windshields in the process. As the woman sped past Falcon  
in the street, her pursuer rushing not too far behind, he realized that he recognized the one  
giving chase. For that reason alone, he did not interfere.  
  
But then, another blur pushed past him, close enough for him to spot a glimmer of dark  
hair and white cloak. And a concealed sword with an ornamental hilt. Headed toward the  
scene playing out in front of them.  
  
'What the fuck--'  
  
He made a dash after the white cape, pushing pedestrians out of the way. His hand  
reached out and closed a fist around the trailing fabric. The other was roughly jerked  
back, balance lost to the wet sidewalk. Falcon lunged forward and tackled. They both fell  
against the pavement.  
  
Sliding off, Falcon hauled the other one upright. He dragged the protesting form with him  
as he slipped into an alley.  
  
It was that kid from the arena.   
  
Falcon threw him against the wall.  
  
"What do you think you're doing?"  
  
The boy struggled, tearing out of the other man's grip. He made a break for the street,  
but Falcon's arm wound around his waist. The kid found himself lifted off his feet, spun  
around, and pinned to the wall, a strong hand on the back of his neck, another wrenching  
his wrist behind his back.  
  
"You better not be trying what I think you're trying."  
  
Face pressed against granite, the kid's eyes frantically searched the street. What he saw  
made them widen. Falcon turned to look just as a loud gunblast rang out.  
  
The figure in white stood in the street, gun drawn. Several meters away, the body of the  
woman collapsed, dead weight, on top of a car. The blast had blown a charred hole  
through her midsection. But she didn't bleed. Instead, her body began to shake with  
convulsions, limbs thrashing violently, hammering dents into the metal beneath her.  
  
Another blast from the gun ended it. Back arching, she was consumed by a blinding flash  
of light, flesh burning off to reveal an electric grid. Then it faded, and nothing remained,  
only a small piece of red metal that fell onto the wet asphalt, its color waning.  
  
The kid stopped struggling, but his chest heaved with difficult breaths. Falcon finally  
backed off and let the kid turn around. He considered the boy's face with shaded eyes.  
  
"Was that what you were trying to stop?" he demanded after a long pause.  
  
The kid didn't answer, just shoved past Falcon and ran for the street. But the bounty  
hunter wasn't about to let him go so easily. He took a hold of the back of the young  
man's collar and dragged him down the sidewalk, following the figure in the white jacket  
as she walked calmly away from the scene.  
  
The kid was objecting in some foreign language Falcon couldn't understand.  
  
'No wonder.'  
  
Half a block away, Falcon called out to the hunter. "Summers!"  
  
Jody Summers turned around, surprised. Then a small smile lit her features.  
  
"Falcon," she said in greeting as he caught up to her, the kid in tow. "How have you  
been?"  
  
He nodded. "Fine. I saw your little performance out there."  
  
She chuckled, pulling the piece of faded red metal from her jacket pocket. "Well, I've got  
a make a living when I'm not racing." The metal disappeared under her white jacket.   
  
He smiled a little. "I know."   
  
"That idiot back there wanted me to pay for the damages on his car," she said.   
  
"Huh. So what are you gonna do?"  
  
"I slipped him the company's contact info," she answered. "It's their liability issue, not  
mine."  
  
"Heh," Falcon responded, nodding in agreement. "Good call." Then he threw the kid in  
her direction. "By the way. Do you know this piece of shit?"  
  
Jody looked the young man over, but no recognition showed on her face. "No. Am I  
supposed to?"  
  
Falcon shook his head. "Not really. Just wondering."  
  
The kid broke into a run, but Falcon caught the end of his cape. "I don't think so, kid."   
The boy spun around and punched Falcon on the side of the head. Unfortunately, he only  
succeeded in banging his knuckles solidly against Falcon's helmet. Grimacing in pain, he  
had to pull his hand back. But the attack knocked the hunter's head forcefully enough to  
give the older man a brief, unpleasant sense of vertigo.  
  
"Fuck!"  
  
Jody only laughed. "I think he likes you."  
  
Falcon shook his head to clear it, blinking stars from his vision. Then his eyes fell on the  
kid again. "Look--"  
  
The boy took a step back and reached for his sword. But found nothing. He gaped at the  
empty space at his hip, just now registering the loss of a familiar weight.  
  
"Oh. I guess you're looking for this." Falcon pulled the belt out from behind his back,  
sword and scabbard attached. He received a hard glare that could have killed him if he  
hadn't developed immunity over his years. "Now, can we talk it over?"  
  
The kid only stared back at him for a moment, clothes soaked by the rain, wet bangs  
obscuring his eyes. He bit out a sharp reply in his native tongue.   
  
Surprisingly, it was Summers who responded, answering in his language. The kid seemed  
taken back. Falcon turned to her.  
  
"You understand him?"  
  
She nodded. "It's Japanese. He just told you to go fuck yourself."  
  
"Hm." Falcon took a moment to consider. "You got a minute?" he asked.  
  
She nodded expectantly.   
  
"Then do me a favor, Jo?"  
  
Summers raised an eyebrow. "You want me to translate while you question him?"  
  
"It's important. Deals with Samurai Goroh." He left it at that.  
  
"I see." Summers finally gave in with a nod. "Fine. But you owe me something. I'll  
think of what later." She looked at the kid. "For now, let's find a place out of the rain."  
  
* * *  
  
The kid sat across from him at the table. Falcon turned to the window of the coffee shop  
to watch Jo make her way down the street, long brown hair drenched by the rain, and not  
seeming to care. Her hands were shoved into her jacket pockets, one of them probably  
wrapped around a gun, as she walked alone in the dark.  
  
Turning back, Falcon lifted the mug of black coffee to his mouth. The kid had ordered  
tea, apparently just to sit and hold it in his hands, not to drink it.  
  
Falcon finally spoke. "Why did you pretend you couldn't understand me?"  
  
The kid did not raise his head. "Just because I did not speak to you, does not mean I  
cannot speak."  
  
Falcon sipped his drink calmly. He drew out a handful of coins and slid them across the  
table. "Will you answer some questions, now?"  
  
With visible reluctance, the kid nodded once, cautiously retrieving the money into his  
palm.  
  
"We'll skip over who you are and where you're from," Falcon said. "How long have you  
been working for Samurai Goroh?"  
  
"I do not work for him now."  
  
"How long did you when you were?"  
  
"Three years."  
  
"That's not very long," Falcon commented. No response. He tried again. "What did you  
do for him?"  
  
"Fighting."  
  
"So he was your sponsor," Falcon said. "How much of a cut was he taking?"  
  
"All."  
  
"What?"  
  
"He took all."  
  
Falcon eyed the kid skeptically. "You've got to be joking," he said. "And you agreed to  
this? What did you owe him?"  
  
The young man paused before answering. "I owe him much," he finally said.  
  
Falcon tried to stare him down, but the kid wasn't even looking at him. He decided to let  
it slide.  
  
"So when did you quit?"  
  
"Last year."  
  
"Why?"  
  
No answer. Falcon grit his teeth in frustration. "Did you pay off your debt?"  
  
"I do not know."  
  
"Then he might be after you."  
  
"Perhaps."  
  
"You're not scared?"  
  
"No."  
  
Falcon shook his head. Stupid kid. "Okay. Fine. Were you involved with his bounty  
hunting or his racing?"  
  
"No."  
  
The older man took this in, leaning back to light a cigarette. After a few moments of  
silence, Falcon rubbed his chin. "Well, that's it then."  
  
The kid looked up, confused.  
  
"I don't need anything else from you."  
  
"Are you . . . sure?"  
  
"Sure," he answered simply. "You can't help me, kid."  
  
"May I leave?"  
  
"Do what you want."  
  
The kid hesitated. "My sword."  
  
"Oh yeah," Falcon mumbled. He handed it off to him under the table and watched as the  
young fighter tightened the belt around his waist. Now Falcon understood the purpose of  
that stupid cape. It was to hide the fact that someone like him could wrap a single arm  
around the kid and lift him off the ground. The bounty hunter wondered which was  
better, to hide the fact that you're smaller, or to use your size to catch people by surprise.   
Most likely it depended on the situation. Better to use it to throw off your opponents in  
the ring, where their misconception worked to your advantage, than to show it out on the  
streets, where avoiding confrontation was the key to survival.  
  
He watched the kid stand up to leave. Then he put out his cigarette. Leaving money on  
the table, he followed. Someone had left an umbrella under one of the tables, so he  
grabbed that on his way out.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
Falcon opened the red and white umbrella. His voice came out mockingly. "You're too  
little to be wandering around on your own." He glanced at the sheathed blade. "'sides,  
swords ain't been proven to stop guns."  
  
"You are also not proven to me," the kid retorted, "but the Falchion is."  
  
"Don't tell me that thing's got a name."  
  
Bristling, the kid turned to walk on. Falcon followed, holding the umbrella over both of  
them. Two blocks passed in silence, then a third, before the kid spoke up.  
  
"My turn," he said.  
  
"For what?" Falcon asked around another cigarette.  
  
"My turn to ask questions. Who are you and where are you from?"  
  
Falcon stuffed a hand into his pocket, weighing different possible responses before  
answering. "I'm Captain Falcon," he said. "I come from here, Mute City."  
  
"Why do you want to know about Samurai Goroh?"  
  
"Heh." Falcon blew out a cloud of smoke. "That's my personal business, kid."  
  
"He is one of your own," the kid said. "A bounty hunter. And a racer."  
  
Falcon nodded. "Yeah. Not my kind though." He puffed out another cloud before  
continuing. "And just recently, he almost ran everyone else out of the game. Three years  
in a row, he took home the Grand Prix trophy. Had a perfect record too--took first place  
in every single race. And when he wasn't racing, he chased bounty--all captures off the  
top ten most wanted for those years. He was about to put the rest of us out of business."   
Falcon paused to glance at the kid. But the boy kept his eyes straight ahead. Falcon  
continued, "Then, about a year ago, he finishes in fourth place at Big Blue. Since then,  
he's fallen back to his old standing. Hasn't been getting much in way of bounty, either. A  
couple big names a few months back. But that's it. Same as before."  
  
"Then . . ." the kid began, "why are you concerned?"  
  
"'Cuz when a man finds success that quickly, then loses it, something's up."  
  
"Then it is probably because of Samurai Goroh's private life," the kid said. "You do not  
have to become involved."  
  
"Hn. I do." Falcon wasn't about to explain it further. He stopped walking and turned to  
face the kid. "And it looks like when he was getting unbelievably lucky, you started  
working for him. And when you quit, his luck ran out. Tell me, did you stop working for  
him because his high time ended, or did you have something to do with the reason it  
ended?"  
  
"It may be because of you," the kid offered. "One year ago, you came back to the F-Zero  
race."  
  
"Hn." Falcon passed another scrutinizing eye over the young man before marching on.   
"Maybe," he admitted. "But I don't think so."  
  
They continued in silence. Another block down, the kid spoke up again.  
  
"If it is as you say, then this is a personal matter. I heard your name before, when people  
said you disappeared from both scenes. They said you could not compete with  
Goroh-sama anymore as a racer or a bounty hunter. They said this is why you retired.  
  
"Now you come back and want to find what caused him to succeed. Do you want to use  
it for yourself?"  
  
Falcon kept his face straight. He could almost feel the kid watching him with careful eyes.   
Slowly, his footsteps came to a halt. The kid stopped too.   
  
"When we were at the coffee shop," Falcon muttered, "and me 'n Jo were talking, you  
understood every single goddamn thing we said, didn't you?"  
  
"Hai."  
  
"I'll take that as a 'yes'," Falcon replied. He turned sharply to face the other. "You still  
haven't told me why you wanted to get between Jo and her bounty."  
  
The kid looked away. "Do you ever hunt wire frames?" he asked.  
  
"Yeah. Not really anymore though. No real money in it."  
  
"Do you think they're alive?"  
  
Falcon took in a breath. 'No, not one of those,' he thought. 'The sympathetic kind. The  
worst.'   
  
"No, kid," he said, "I don't. They're just computers. Some have complicated AI  
programming, but that's it. Companies are afraid of piracy so they pay money for  
recaptured and unregistered frames. Most of those things are just toys anyway, pets and  
housecleaners. Some people use 'em for tournaments. But when they're through with  
'em, they've got to be returned to the manufacturer to be destroyed."  
  
"Yes," the kid admitted. "Yet . . ." His eyes searched the ground. "Why do they try to  
escape?"  
  
Falcon hesitated, not so sure of what to say. He sighed, suddenly tired. "Look, kid, I  
don't know. They're not alive. I don't know why they run."  
  
No response. Falcon spoke again, "Hey, let me try to give you one piece of advice, all  
right? From now on, don't get between any more hunters and their bounties. It's like  
standing between a racer and the finish line."   
  
He paused, then added, "And when you beat three guys in the ring, don't go for a fourth."  
  
The kid's head snapped up.   
  
Falcon smirked. "Especially when the fourth is me."  
  
Those dark eyes burned into him again. Then, the kid offered another question, his voice  
barely above a whisper.  
  
"Why do you fight?"  
  
It silenced the older man. For a few good seconds at least. Falcon swallowed, forcing his  
lies down his throat. "It's what I do best. I fight when I race. I fight when I hunt. It's all  
I can do. I've been fighting my entire life." Falcon watched the kid's reaction, afraid he  
had let his age seep into his voice. Then he returned the favor.   
  
"Why do you do it?"  
  
The kid tilted his head to the side, still studying Falcon's face--what portion of it was  
visible, in any case. Again, his voice emerged softly.   
  
"Why do they run?"   
  
An answer was in that question somewhere, but Falcon couldn't decipher it. Hell, he was  
old. What else could he learn? What more could he do?  
  
He glanced away, then back. The kid didn't meet his eyes, gazing off into the distance  
instead, head tilted up. Falcon followed his line of sight and settled on a massive billboard.  
  
"Melee Tournament," the kid said, watching the moving pixels.  
  
"Hn."  
  
"Sometimes when they run, they run there."  
  
"What do you mean?" Falcon asked.  
  
"I mean there is a rumor one year, an AI won the tournament. People say it received an  
organic body from the Master Hand for a prize. Also, it was granted citizenship and  
declared a free agent by the city."  
  
"Heh," Falcon chuckled. "That's an urban legend, kid. I've heard that one too."  
  
"Yes, you must have." The young fighter turned to the bounty hunter. "Will you be  
there?"  
  
"Where? The tournament?"  
  
A nod.  
  
"Yeah. I'll be there."  
  
"Then we will have our rematch." With that, the kid stepped out from under the umbrella  
and trekked into the rain.  
  
"You gotta name, kid?" Falcon asked.  
  
He stopped walking, his back to the other man. "Yes."  
  
"Care to tell me?"  
  
"No."  
  
Falcon tensed, his jaw going rigid. He forced himself to relax. "Suit yourself, kid. Guess  
I'll have to drop a description when I pay a visit to Fat Man." He watched as the fighter  
turned, glancing over a shoulder at him.   
  
"And how," the kid asked, "will offering my name prevent you from doing it?"  
  
"I'm a pretty nice guy," Falcon contended though his tone was sarcastic. "I'll prove it to  
you." He fished out another cigarette. "Goroh already knows where to find you. He was  
there the night we fought." Lighting a smoke, he waited for the kid's response.  
  
Only a deep stare.  
  
"Goodnight, Falcon," he said at length. "I will see you at the tournament. My name is  
Marth."   
  
And as with Jody Summers, Falcon stood for a long time, watching him walk away. 


	4. the quiet city: prion212

Author's Note: Slight A/U.  
  
Disclaimer: The following contains characters and concepts that are NOT the property of the author. They are the intellectual property of Nintendo, HAL Laboratories and their associates. The author has received NO monetary benefit from this piece of shit.  
  
--------------------------------------------  
  
The Quiet City: Legacy of the Prion  
  
--------------------------------------------  
  
On the next sunny day, he dreamed of rain. Water fell like static on a television screen, and he forgot where he was. Mute City's wayward child wandered in endless mazes, through a metropolis that shined with the brilliance of a 1,000 million synthetic toys, until a voice called out to him. Then a pair of arms wrapped around his neck. A body held him, a pulse pounded against his chest, and something else ghosted on his mouth, echoes of smooth soft.  
  
He woke up in a daze, the com line ringing. Finally he remembered: dead wire frames, Jody Summer's grin, and a boy who wouldn't give his name.  
  
He leaned over the bed to check the sender. It was Samus.  
  
"What is it, Sam?" he asked wearily.  
  
"Fox and Falco are here," she answered. "I'll meet you at the eastern port in half an hour. Area 134, Dock K-339-a." The line clicked dead.  
  
Goddamn. Leave it to Sam to be so fucking blunt first thing in the morning.  
  
* * *  
  
From above, Mute City was a complicated circuit board, grey and silver monoliths barely gracing the sky. But at closer inspection, it revealed the depths of its streets, the millions of tiny moving dots that were its citizens. Its imperfections were hidden at this height, the imperfections that pervaded in any construct teeming with life--human or otherwise.  
  
Fox let the onboard computer guide his fighter into port. He had not been in this part of the galaxy for a while. Still, he remembered the city. To the right, he spotted the towering loop that represented part of the F-Zero racetrack, weaving a path between the highest buildings.  
  
How many years, since he had dragged the entire crew here on a much-needed vacation, when they had been in the stands at the King League Grand Prix watching Falcon race? Falco had made a small fortune gambling on the Captain, back when Captain ruled the game.  
  
The memory was burning in his mind by the time his ship had docked. He debarked with the cargo, a sizable carrying case that appeared much too benign for its content. Falco appeared next to him, holding a single duffle bag, complaining, as always, about the city's atrocious bureaucratic procedures.  
  
"How's the arm?" Fox asked.  
  
Falco glanced down at his left wing. "Fine! Quit asking. I'm not made of glass. You, on the other hand . . . how's your head?"  
  
"I'm okay," Fox assured him, to which Falco sneered.  
  
"No shit. Not much left to damage."  
  
"Huh. If that's what I get for saving your feathered ass, I should have left you there."  
  
"Yeah?" Falco challenged, eyebrows raised. "Then who's gonna cover you the next time you fuck up, huh?"  
  
They stepped out into the morning sun, onto the steel walkway. Falco looked ahead.  
  
"I guess that's the welcoming committee," he said.  
  
Fox glanced up and saw the two human figures standing at the bottom of the ramp. He grinned, in spite of the seriousness behind their visit here. "Long time, Captain," he called out as he and Falco approached. "What happened? We all thought you were dead."  
  
Falcon quirked a smile. "Not yet," he muttered and nodded at Falco, who returned the gesture. The bird then turned to Samus.  
  
"You briefed him yet?"  
  
"No," she answered. "I wanted him to hear it from the two of you."  
  
Fox passed a look over Falcon. His grip tightened on the handle of the case, abruptly aware of its weight.  
  
"Fine," Falco agreed. "But not before I get something to eat."  
  
* * *  
  
The Prion-212 had been a looming mystery ever since it died nearly fifty years ago. It was a Federation-run research facility, all information on its location and purpose kept confidential for security reasons. Not until the project was abandoned did word of its existence leak out to the public. Since then, many would set out in search of it, though few ever found it.  
  
Eventually, the space station passed into modern myth. It became a ghost story told in various isolated ports and colonies across the quadrant. Rumors told of a secret object contained there, a powerful device constructed to be a weapon above all weapons. Some said that the Federation lost control of it and had to desert the station, leaving the project unfinished, frozen at nearly zero degrees Kelvin, alone to spin among the stars.  
  
The Federation had no intention of salvaging it, so the Eckbert Corporation stepped in.  
  
They contacted Fox McCloud and the Star Fox Team.  
  
The corp. provided the coordinates, pinpointing the Prion to a location in rarely traveled territory, orbiting a dying star. The station had another year or two left, by the standard calendar, before it would be pulled into the star's expanding gravitational field and incinerated.  
  
Star Fox found themselves in a bind. The operation took nearly a month to plan. Much of the information about the station was protected by inter- galactic security protocol, and Eckbert Corp. was not forthcoming with any more facts. After weeks of investigation, and coming up with no leads on what they were getting themselves into, Fox decided that they needed someone who knew the Federation well enough to bypass the government's database security.  
  
So Fox called in a favor.  
  
And Samus Aran agreed to it, but on one condition.  
  
Whatever they found onboard the Prion was not to be released to Eckbert Corp.  
  
* * *  
  
Falcon's eyes, hidden as always, met Fox's across the table. The kitsune merely squinted and returned a devious smile while the bounty hunter sat rubbing his chin. Fox exchanged glances with Falco, who was stretched out on the couch. It was his apartment, after all. Fox had known that Falco kept a condo in Mute City, but he would have expected a fancier set up. It was reasonably comfortable living space, regardless, even holding four slightly tense adults.  
  
Samus stood against the wall behind Fox, arms folded across her chest.  
  
"Does Eckbert know you have it?" Falcon asked. "I'm assuming that's what's in the box."  
  
Fox nodded once, leaning back in his chair, one arm bent behind his head. "We told them we couldn't find it. They paid us for our time."  
  
Falcon regarded the mercenary with wariness. "Since when did you start stealing from your employers?"  
  
Fox let his eyes wander over Falco's ceiling. "Hey, this is how I see it," he explained. "Something this powerful doesn't belong in their hands."  
  
"It shut down an entire station," Falco added, "drove a whole bunch of Federation scientists crazy, and disabled any ship that crossed into its space."  
  
"Your guys can't figure out what it is?" Falcon asked.  
  
Fox shook his head.  
  
"And Slippy ain't half as dumb as he looks," Falco said.  
  
Falcon glanced between the two of them. "Is that why you guys are here?" he asked. "Why bring it to me?"  
  
Fox gave a lopsided smile. "Long story, Captain. Hope you don't mind hearing it."  
  
"I'm starting to get used to that from freaks like you."  
  
Falco rolled his eyes. "We've been getting more action than you, old man. Just be glad we're generous enough to throw you a bone."  
  
"Watch your beak, birdie," Falcon shot back, before returning his attention to Fox. "I'm listening."  
  
"Well," Fox began, "we found out some things when we started looking into Eckbert Corp. They've been funding a lot of archaeological digs lately. All over the galaxy. Most of these excavations turn up empty, but when they do find something, it goes to Eckbert's labs for testing."  
  
"So," Falco cut in, "we applied this to the Federation's activities over the past hundred years and looked up their mining operations."  
  
Fox nodded. "Right. And we found leads on a few recorded anomalies. Most important is an operation that took place on Planet LK-644. They accidentally stumbled on some archaeological finds."  
  
"You think this thing is some kind of artifact or something," Falcon concluded.  
  
"The man's a genius," Falco proclaimed sarcastically.  
  
"Shut up, cocksucker," Falcon answered. The bird snickered.  
  
"It's all we know," Fox explained. "But Eckbert's a partner of Digital Clay Technologies, and those guys recently put out a huge bounty on an escaped AI, right?"  
  
Falcon tensed, then nodded.  
  
"Don't know if you remember, Captain," Fox said, "but a few years ago, some bandits raided a government-funded archaeological dig. They made off with some artifacts headed for the black market. But before they could sell the merchandise, they got busted. They got caught on their way to meet up with a buyer, in fact. And guess who made the bust?"  
  
"I have no clue," Captain muttered.  
  
Falco was all too happy to supply the answer. "Your best friend, Cap'n," he hinted. "The infamous Samurai Goroh."  
  
Falcon said nothing.  
  
"Goroh took them in," Fox continued, nodding, "and they told authorities that the buyer was an exec from Digital Clay. DC denied it, and that ended that. Guess they've got police by the balls, eh?"  
  
"What happened to the cargo?" Captain intoned, his voice grim.  
  
Fox shrugged. "Goroh handed over part of it. Claimed the rest was destroyed."  
  
To this, Falco let out a laugh. "Hah! And you know Goroh's word. As good as gold-plated shit. Probably sold it off himself."  
  
Captain Falcon was silent. He studied Fox across the table. The mercenary was rocking his chair back and forth on its rear legs, a daredevil smirk creeping into his face. Falcon didn't know what counted as old or young for his kind, but Fox seemed incredibly young just then. Hardly a professional operative and feared assassin. But sitting across from Falcon was a legend in the making. Fox and his crew would be remembered in years to come, the subject of stories and tall tales told throughout many a dark corner of the universe.  
  
Did anyone in this profession live to grow old?  
  
Besides Captain Falcon of the F-Zero races, of course.  
  
"This is all just circumstantial," he said finally. "You don't have much to give me. Unless there's something you're not telling me, Fox."  
  
The kitsune met his gaze steadily. For a moment, no one said anything. Then Falco broke the silence.  
  
"Show him."  
  
Fox glanced at his teammate, who simply shrugged his shoulders as if to say, 'why not?' Then he returned his gaze to the bounty hunter. His chair settled on all four legs with a solid thud. Reaching down by his feet, Fox took hold of the case and lifted it onto the table. He worked the complicated locking mechanism. Then, eyes on Falcon, he held open the lid.  
  
It didn't seem like much, Falcon thought, leaning in to look into the box. Really, not that big of a thing. Around him, silence had settled in thickly. He was about to tilt back in his chair, thoroughly unimpressed, when something started to hum in the back of his head. Confused, he stared into the box. Immediately, he got caught up in a sense of dejavu. The humming became whispers, filling the emptiness of the room. The thing in the box expanded, grew larger in his mind, or maybe it wasn't that, but something else . . .  
  
Fox slammed down the lid and locked it. He watched the bounty hunter's reaction carefully. Along with Falco, he had experienced the object's effect first-hand, so he wasn't surprised when Captain Falcon had to shake his head to clear the clouds. It still surprised him, the things it could do to people. Destruction embodied in a physical object. The kitsune smiled warily, though it marked his face more like a grimace.  
  
"Hope that satisfied your curiosity," Falco taunted, but his voice was solemn.  
  
The bounty hunter didn't even acknowledge the comment. Instead, he looked up at Fox. "How old is that thing?"  
  
When Fox couldn't answer, Samus did.  
  
"Old."  
  
Her voice reminded Falcon that she was still in the room. He stole a glance to where she stood, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Her eyes were on him, calm and unreadable.  
  
"What about you, Sam?" he asked. "What sort of connections have you got in the Federation?"  
  
"An old friend," she answered casually.  
  
"They must want it back if you had to promise not to hand it over to Eckbert."  
  
"That's true," she agreed. "But the Feds can't have it either. It doesn't belong to them."  
  
"Then who the hell does it belong to?" Falcon demanded. "What are you hiding, Sam?"  
  
Her reply came out coolly. "Nothing."  
  
"Right," Falcon growled sarcastically.  
  
"All I know is this," she said. "That thing is older than we think, and more powerful than we can probably understand. And it isn't the only one. There is at least one more, maybe two. There's the one that DC Tech is still after, that same one Samurai Goroh probably came into contact with . . . and one more."  
  
"That's a bit of a stretch, don't you think?" Falcon challenged.  
  
Sam regarded him in silence.  
  
"You think it's the bounty, don't you?" He sighed. "It happens, sometimes. Some AI program will dive into the net and make the jump onto some other online console or wire frame. No one knows why. Just a glitch. The companies want 'em back 'cuz it's expensive work. Doesn't mean it has anything to do with this." He gestured to the box.  
  
Sam's stare was still fixed on him. "Do you want to know how Goroh managed to do so well these past few years?" she asked calmly.  
  
Captain clenched his teeth but didn't respond. Fox tried to break the tension.  
  
"We downloaded the Prion's logs," he began. "This thing, whatever it is - it isn't normal, for sure. It doesn't seem sentient, but we don't know that for a fact. You saw it for yourself. Doesn't it seem to do something to your head?"  
  
Instead of answering, Falcon decided he needed a cigarette.  
  
"That's exactly what it does," Falco asserted. "It fucks with your head. That's what it did to an entire station of scientists while they were trying to dissect it. That's why the Federation abandoned the project."  
  
Falcon shook his head while he lit up a smoke. Inhaling deeply, he ran the information through his mind. Fog drifted into the air around him as he let out his breath.  
  
"I don't get it," Falcon mumbled. He rose his eyes to Sam. "What's in this for you?"  
  
The other hunter only shook her head. "No money reward, Falcon. No one's offering you anything. But if either the Feds or the corps get a hold of these artifacts, we're all pretty much fucked. So there's your prize, Captain. You get to be a hero."  
  
'But no one will know,' he thought, filling in the words she had left unsaid.  
  
It was a long time before Falcon spoke again.  
  
"So this one came from an old Fed mining colony," he murmured.  
  
Sam nodded. "Yes."  
  
Fox flashed a quick grin to Falco. It looked like Captain was joining the team.  
  
Falcon smoked, lost in deep thought. "Where did the other one come from?" he asked.  
  
"A more recent excavation site," Samus answered. "The ruins of Altea." 


	5. knights in shining

Author's Note: Revision of previous posting. Slight A/U. Segment features Roy.  
  
Disclaimer: The following contains characters and concepts that are NOT the property of the author. They are the intellectual property of Nintendo, HAL Laboratories, and their associates. The author has made NO monetary benefit from this piece of shit.  
  
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Knights in Shining  
  
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Roy dodged behind Mario as the fireball was released. He had a second, before his opponent turned, to deliver a quick, midlevel cut across Mario's back. He followed up with a second slash, but his opponent had recovered, spinning around to let loose another fireball. It matched Roy's cut and struck the blade. Roy was forced backward, unbalanced. To compensate, he settled into stance and pulled his sword into counter-guard, just as Mario supplied a punch-kick combo. The punch made contact with Roy's blade. Then as Mario threw his kick, Roy released a vertical cut, summoning the flames that would wrap around his opponent's body, carrying Mario with them as they catapulted across the stage.  
  
Mario landed roughly, and Roy dashed toward him, weapon ready. But the other fighter was already on his feet, making a jump for one of the elevated platforms. Roy followed. He slashed outward with the blade, but the other combatant was no longer there. Turning, he found Mario behind him and an enlarged fist flying for his face. At the platform's edge, Roy jumped. He arched his back, the night sky unfolding above him, as he flipped over. Mario's fist barely missed.  
  
Roy made a solid landing on the arena floor, one hand still gripping his sword, the other hitting the ground for balance. He spared a glance up at the other platform, where Marth fought Mario's brother, Luigi. A grin twisted Roy's mouth. They were doing good tonight. Marth, almost serene in his movements, danced around Luigi's attacks, creating sufficient distance for him to swing his blade in rapid arcs. The speed in his swordplay was something Marth was known for.  
  
Straining his neck to look above him, Roy searched for Mario. He found the other man leaping to the platform where Marth and Luigi fought. Marth, evading Luigi's punches, left his back open to the other, who whipped out his cape and dealt a cheap shot on Roy's partner. Marth stumbled but didn't fall. Roy rushed for the platform. Luigi had unleashed his torpedo attack, launching himself headfirst at his opponent. But Marth, backed to the edge, made the jump for the lower floor. Roy watched as the move was caught on the arena's big screen. His friend, in midair, arching backward, fell, turning, flipping, into a half spin, deep red cloth swirling around him, then landed, crouched on the floor.  
  
Locking eyes with his partner, Roy was again grinning. His words came out in a determined whisper.  
  
"Let's finish this."  
  
Marth simply nodded.  
  
* * *  
  
Nothing in the League provinces could have prepared him for Mute City. The crowds in the terminal were just the beginning. They would spill into the streets, pushing him out into a hectic jungle. The roads had no stopping points it seemed. Everything moved forward relentlessly.   
  
At night, the lights from billboards and street lamps lit up the city as clearly as day. To him, it seemed as magnificent as it was daunting. Pharae might as well have been another dimension.  
  
For new arrivals, the fight stadium stood out like a homing beacon, calling out to the daring and the desperate. It held the promise of wealth and fame coated beneath an aesthetic veneer. The price was paid in sweat and blood.   
  
But all the impressive lighting could only attempt to hide the cheapened nature of an over-played, over-commercialized, spectator sport. Real fights took place in the shadows. At night, in the underground fight clubs, contestants battled without safeties. Matches were raw, without flair, played out before a crude and jaded audience. And it was here that any new fighter had to start out.  
  
They learned to take him seriously from the first moment he stepped into the ring. Short in stature, a youthful face and a reckless attitude, he didn't look like much, just another kid barely out of adolescence. Look closely and maybe you could see that he lacked the awkwardness of a teenager and that his weapon was like an extension of his arm. Look closer and maybe you could see that neither the sword nor the armor could possibly be as light as he made it seem, bouncing on his feet the way he did.   
  
But nobody knew. Nobody knew that he had commanded an army, or that he had seen battles of greater intensity than anything they would ever witness in their glamorized stadium.   
  
But they learned quickly. He took their attacks with little fazing and left the mat saturated in their blood.   
  
That first week, he fought one battle after another. One night, his opponent had been a new and inexperienced fighter, so therefore unpredictable. In a moment of uncertainty during the match, the noise and heat of the underground arena suddenly overwhelmed him, threatening to drown his senses. Momentarily distracted, he caught a solid fist to the stomach, forced to take it in, stars clouding his vision. Fighting for balance, he ducked the next swing, wild because the other combatant was overeager. Grabbing his opponent, he threw the other man into the mat. As the fallen fighter struggled to rise, the young swordsman let loose a fierce combo attack, the heavy blade cutting through his opponent's padded gear. The other man fell, bleeding onto the floor, and the match ended.  
  
He had won.  
  
The night air was cool on his skin as the young fighter walked out of the building. He ran a hand through his hair, settling into the calm that followed every fight. His heart pulsed steadily, and the foreign surroundings didn't grate at him. For the moment, he felt at peace.  
  
He hadn't walked past the block before running into a form blocking his way. He looked up and found three of them, standing in front of him. They were fighters from the arena. He recognized them as former opponents. Defeated opponents.  
  
Taking a few steps back, he rested a hand on his hip and let a cocky grin work his face. They shifted eyes at each other, unsettled. For one, he should have been intimidated, or at least worried. He was outnumbered.  
  
They tried to rush him all at once, but he wouldn't let them have the first strike. He was already in motion, dodging to the outside. He tripped the guy on the right, throwing him face down onto the concrete. The one in the center stumbled over his friend trying to get to their enemy. The sheathed end of a sword punched squarely into his abdomen, and he doubled over, groaning in pain. But then the sword swung upward, smacking him in the forehead and knocking his head back. Clutching his head, he crumpled to the ground.  
  
The young fighter had enough time to jump back and unsheathe his sword. Now the third attacker pulled out his weapon, a long heavy chain. It swung through the air, cutting the space above the shorter fighter's head as he hastily ducked. He backed up further, sword held defensively.  
  
At that moment, the loud noise of something whipping through the air met his ears. Instinctively, he dropped to the ground. His attacker was not quick enough though, and suddenly a flying object pelted him in the back of his head. It knocked him roughly to the ground. He pushed off the concrete, trying to stand up again, which turned out to be a mistake. The boomerang hit him on its return path, this time in the face, leveling him to the ground again.  
  
The swordsman cautiously rose to his feet. The boomerang had found its owner, who stood a few meters away, fixing the other with a steady look. His clothes were nothing that the young fighter could place. The gold-haired youth wore mostly green. His boots were brown fabric, not the hard plastic that was common around here. And on his back, the edges of a metal plate were visible, which the fighter knew from experience to be a shield. But still, he didn't look like he came from anywhere in the League. And besides, there was the matter of those ears ...  
  
After a period of silence, the interloper finally spoke.  
  
"They usually do this to new people," he said.  
  
The swordsman grinned, glancing down at the fallen bodies. "Really? Maybe after tonight they'll stop."  
  
The other followed his gaze. "We should leave before they wake up."  
  
"Sure. Are you my friend now?"  
  
A smile. He scratched the side of his head just under his cap. "Yeah, I guess."  
  
* * *  
  
"The name's Roy," the fighter said later, as a way of introduction.  
  
His companion nodded. "Link."  
  
Roy stared at him for a minute. "I know that name," he said. "I've heard about you. You're top tier."  
  
"I thought you were new," Link said.  
  
"Yeah, but they all talk about you," Roy answered. "You're the current top fighter."  
  
Link smiled broadly, but seemed embarrassed. "For now," he said. "No one really stays top for very long."  
  
"That's because it's a bloodbath," Roy replied. "Whoever wins a tournament just takes the big prize and runs off to an estate somewhere, right? No one wants to do this forever."  
  
Link nodded again, his face contemplative. "You're new and you already know."  
  
Roy just shrugged. His gaze went past Link. "Why did you stop here?"  
  
"I live here," his companion said.  
  
"Here? Why here?" Roy only saw a block of abandoned industrial warehouses, most only partially guarded with rusted chain-link fencing. Some were merely skeletons, barely standing.  
  
Link gestured back to the line-up of ruined buildings and high, twisted metal beams. "I look after the Lost Woods," he said quietly.  
  
Confused, Roy tried to follow where he pointed. Eventually, his eyes made out small faces peering out of broken windows--tiny figures perched on metal beams. The rusting constructions were inhabited.  
  
* * *  
  
"I found him outside the arena one night," Link explained quietly. They sat on the hard floor of the dark room. Roy leaned into the wall and watched Link sort his various tools and weapons. Across the room, Link's smaller mirror image attended to a couple yellow rodents with spotted cheeks.  
  
"He had those two rats with him," Link was saying. "And he dressed like me. Had a wooden shield and a short sword. The kids hold Pokemon matches by the arena some nights. When I met him, he was doing pretty well. Those rats were earning his living."  
  
"Looks like your number one fan," Roy commented.  
  
Link didn't respond. He watched his hands contemplatively as he worked a rag over the metal surface of his shield.  
  
A loud yelp drew their attention across the room. The kid went flying back as a bright jolt of lightning struck the floor. The larger of the two rats visibly winced. Its smaller counterpart absorbed the blast and fell onto its back, eyes large and watery, its little feet twitching in the air.   
  
Roy threw his head back and laughed out loud. He couldn't help it. Even Link chuckled when his younger twin sat up, rubbing his head in dismay. The older mouse cautiously crept up to the smaller one and looked it over.  
  
"They can still benefit from a little more training," Roy observed.  
  
Link nodded, watching the kid check up on his Pokemon. "He calls himself 'Link' or 'Young Link'."  
  
"What do you call him then?" Roy asked.  
  
"The same," his companion answered.  
  
* * *  
  
Roy charged his weapon at the end of the platform. Mario double-jumped in midair. His black shoes had almost reached the floor when Roy released the strike. The blade cut down, flashing bright flames, and Mario was catapulted off the platform and into the abyss. The announcer's omnipotent voice announced a KO to the roar of the crowd. Roy turned triumphantly and looked for Marth.  
  
Like his brother had been, Luigi was cornered at the edge. He double-jumped and flew at Marth with an uppercut. The blow knocked Marth back, giving Luigi time to land on the platform. But as soon as he did, Marth's sword sliced the air in a graceful arc. Dancing Blade drove Luigi to the edge, flickering silver and steel, and the final swing lifted him off the floor and sent him out of the ring.  
  
The announcer called game; the audience rose up in raucous cheers. Marth sheathed his sword and turned back to Roy, delivering an exultant look over his shoulder. Roy grinned, sinking into fighter stance for the sake of the crowd.   
  
He felt like cheering.  
  
* * *  
  
He first met Marth in the ring when they set to fight each other. Roy's attention was fixated on the other fighter's clothes. The similarity was obvious. But his eyes latched onto his opponent's sword. He knew the design of that hilt -- and the crest … that was unmistakable. He glanced over his opponent's face, heart pounding, hands tightening into fists. Either the sword was a good imitation, or else ...  
  
The first strike threw him off guard, a flash of steel flying for his face. His hands were unsteady as he gripped his weapon, and the nervous feeling that welled up inside his chest offset his balance. The sword's crest had burned an image in his mind. He couldn't recover, and the match was lost.  
  
Afterwards, he tried to follow the other fighter out of the arena, but the crush of bodies immediately separated them. Later, he was able to find Link.  
  
"He's one of Samurai Goroh's fighters," his friend said. "His name is Marth."  
  
"Goroh?" Roy asked in a fierce whisper.  
  
Link nodded. His eyes were concerned as they watched Roy's reaction. "Goroh is the one you're looking for, right?"  
  
Roy seemed too shocked to respond. He stared a hole into the ground, eyebrows knitted together in deep thought.  
  
"I think I need to talk to him," he said finally.  
  
Link didn't push it further. "Let me know if I can help," he offered.  
  
The opportunity didn't arise for another few weeks. Sometimes he would go with Young Link to the arcade. Usually the other street kids met there to trade Pokemon or hold practice matches. Young Link, with Pikachu on his shoulders and Pichu in his arms, stood with the crowd, staring intently at the other trainers and their fighters. Roy watched a few matches before leaving to wander the arcade.  
  
That was how he found him again. His face was lit pale blue by the screen, a deep concentration in his eyes as steady hands tapped at the controls. A glimmer of light reflected off the band of metal running through his hair, and a sword-length bundle, wrapped in cloth, rested by his feet, propped against the machine. Roy stood back and scrutinized him.   
  
It didn't help that he had hair the same color as Lilina's.  
  
Finally, Roy stepped up and entered coins into the machine. The other fighter didn't turn. His eyes stayed on the screen. His expression didn't change as his character beat Roy's three times in a row.  
  
Roy finally gave up and walked away. He thought he saw a brief smile twitch on the other boy's face, but he couldn't be sure. So he could only stand back and watched him play. The fighter stayed on the machine until he had beaten all of the computer players. Then, lifting the bundle to his shoulder, he turned to leave. Roy followed him outside.  
  
"So it's Marth, huh?"  
  
The other boy stopped, turning around. Dark eyes regarded him with wariness.  
  
"Yes."  
  
Roy tried to be casual as he approached. "We fought the other night."  
  
A nod. "I remember."  
  
"I thought you might," Roy said. "Considering that you kicked my ass."  
  
Marth's head tilted slightly to the side. "Who are you?" he asked softly.  
  
"Roy. A friend told me that you have a sponsor. Goroh, right?"  
  
Another nod.  
  
"Good. He and I are looking for someone to sponsor us. Maybe you can help us out. Maybe Goroh would be interested in hiring a couple fighters from the top tier, huh?"  
  
Marth considered him in silence for a moment. "You fight well," he said finally. "You do not need a sponsor. It is perhaps better that you are without one."  
  
"Well, hey, you're good too. But that didn't get you into the league, did it?" Roy pointed out. "We were just wondering if Goroh would be interested. We're trying to get established in the league. What do you say?"  
  
"I would say that you will do better with another sponsor," Marth answered quietly.  
  
Roy knitted his brows. Did he hit a sore spot? "Hm? And why is that?" When he got no reply, he pressed on. "Why are you with him if that's the case?"  
  
"I am sorry," Marth said. "I cannot help you." He turned to leave.  
  
"Hey wait!" Roy called out. "One more thing. That sword of yours."  
  
Marth stopped and looked back at him, slightly confused.  
  
"It's interesting," Roy continued, trying to keep talking. "I just wanted to know where you got it, that's all."  
  
"It was given to me."  
  
"Oh really? By Goroh?"  
  
An awkward pause. "No," he said. "My family."  
  
Roy lifted his eyebrows. "Wow. That's pretty cool."  
  
"I am sorry," Marth repeated. "I must go. I am already late." Again, he turned to leave. But Roy's words stopped him.  
  
"Well, I was gonna say," Roy continued, "that you handle that thing like you're Altean or something. And that's not really possible, is it?"  
  
Marth froze, seemingly shocked. Slowly, he turned back and fixed Roy with a cautious gaze. "You," he began carefully, "know ... Altea?"  
  
Roy nodded, his expression serious. "Yeah. And now the question is, what do you know about it?"  
  
For a moment, Marth didn't seem as if he could answer. Then suddenly, he retreated. "I have to go," he apologized. Then, in assurance, "We will meet again, Roy."  
  
"Wait!" Roy started after him, but Marth stopped him with a regretful look.  
  
"I am sorry. Please, I cannot be late." It was a plea.  
  
Grudgingly, Roy relented. "Do you know the Lost Woods?" he asked desperately. "You can find me there, okay?"  
  
Marth nodded, and with a slight bow, he turned and left.  
  
Roy would not see him for days after. He had to wonder if it had been a good idea, letting Marth off like that.   
  
Then, one night, he walked the streets alone from the arena. Rain had started to fall lightly, but it didn't bother him, not as much as the memory of the encounter a few days ago did. He wasn't far from the block of abandoned buildings when something caught his ears. Metal clattered loudly, like something heavy being knocked against the street. He stopped, straining to listen. It could have been nothing -- a stray cat, maybe, knocking over a trashcan. Then it happened again, followed by footfalls pounding against the pavement, the sound of scuffling.   
  
Apprehensive, Roy dropped a hand to the hilt of his sword. He edged closer to the source, onto a dark, narrow street between old buildings. Maneuvering around trash bins and scrap metal, he heard the sound of heavy breathing. A sputtering light on the wall found red trails on the ground beneath his feet. He clenched his teeth and moved on in the dark. At the dead end, a figure became visible, huddled down against the wall, drenched by the increasing downpour.   
  
"Marth!"  
  
His head shot up, one eye peering out through dark, wet bangs. Roy could see that he held one arm against his middle, the other hand braced against the wall. The blood must have been his.  
  
Roy approached slowly, extending one hand. Marth first glanced at him, but then his eyes shifted to something else, something behind him. Tensing, Roy looked over his shoulder.  
  
It stood as tall as a large human male, a shape barely there if not for the electric gridlines that defined its body. It had no face, no clear definitions, but near the center, where the heart would have been on a human body, glowed a bright red mark. The stance it held was offensive, ready to attack.  
  
Roy turned to face it, shaking wet hair out of his eyes. Another one stood next to the first, and he saw one more, further behind it, menacing on approach. Roy counted three. He drew his sword. He could handle three.  
  
The one closest to him attacked first, lunging forward. Roy met it with his blade. The sword cut solidly into its midsection, steel singing against an ephemeral form. Roy spun around in time to meet the next attack, blocking a punch aimed for his face, and brought the sword down on the wire frame's head. A blade against a wire frame made different sounds than it did against real flesh. It rang like a high-pitched tuning fork, like metal on metal.  
  
Another frame attacked from behind, but Roy managed to dodge. He whirled and slashed it along the backside. Turning, he sought out another enemy, but stopped when he heard Marth cry out. An object struck the ground near him, and he had time to recognize it as a Pokeball before it blinded him with a flash of light. The light faded to reveal a rather large, alien-like, grey cat.  
  
The cat hovered, feet not quite touching the ground. It swiped at the nearest frame with a paw, spinning the enemy up into the air. When it landed, the powerful swing of a grey tail sent it flying into the wall.   
  
Roy cut down the second frame as it leapt for the cat. The third was stopped mid-step by a shocking glare from the feline. It crumpled on the spot, flickering sporadically and giving Roy enough time to charge his weapon. He slashed down with the blade. The frame flashed once on contact before its form gave out, burning away like cinders. Its glowing red heart cluttered uselessly against the ground. The color faded.  
  
Roy looked around him. The others had disappeared to the same fate. He kicked at the metal heart by his feet, just to make sure.   
  
The Pokemon settled down on its haunches, curling its tail around its paws, like a real cat, and held Roy with a penetrating stare. Roy stared back, unsure of what to make of it. Unlike Young Link's rodents, this one couldn't even feign harmlessness. Something in its eyes told of an uncanny wisdom. It seemed to be able to see through him.  
  
Movement to the side drew his attention. Marth struggled to his feet, using his sword to support him. Roy stepped forward, stopping only because of the uncertainty on Marth's face.   
  
"Let me help," he said.  
  
Marth let him move closer. Roy replaced the sword back inside its sheath and reached for the other boy. He drew one of Marth's arms over his shoulders, wrapping one of his own arms around the injured fighter's waist. They made their way out onto the street.  
  
Roy set his steps for Link's place. He didn't know where else to go.  
  
Silently, the cat followed.  
  
* * *  
  
"He doesn't know how he got here," Roy explained to Link by the dim glow of a single lamp. "He just ran away from Goroh, so he's going to be trouble if he stays with us."  
  
Link glanced to the doorway to the next room, where Marth slept with his shadowy companion. "Does he know what he is?" Link asked.  
  
Roy leaned his head back against the wall. In the dull yellow light, he seemed incredibly tired. "I think so."  
  
Link's eyes fell on the table next to him. Marth's sword lay out, partially wrapped in a wet piece of cloth. Its hilt glimmered faintly.   
  
"Does this help you?" Link asked. "Or does it make things complicated?"  
  
"It makes things fucking complicated," Roy muttered, banging the back of his head against the wall.  
  
Link examined the blade. A moment of silence passed as he came to a decision. "He can stay with us. If he wants our help, I'm willing."  
  
Roy didn't answer. Link looked over to find that his friend had fallen asleep, sitting against the wall. Amused, he picked up a blanket off the floor and covered the other boy. Then, switching off the light, he murmured to himself.  
  
"In reality or in dreams, our trials are never over." 


End file.
